


There Are a Lot of High Places on Earth C

by bandersnatchbandwidth



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Character Study, Earth C (Homestuck), Implied/Referenced Suicide, Post-Canon, Realistic Depictions of Depression, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-31
Updated: 2019-07-31
Packaged: 2020-07-27 20:43:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20052256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bandersnatchbandwidth/pseuds/bandersnatchbandwidth
Summary: A young god makes a decision.





	There Are a Lot of High Places on Earth C

**Author's Note:**

> *slaps roof of fanfic* this baby can fit so much self-projection in it! it's 3am and i just wrote this all on my phone because i feel bad. this is a look at the form of depression i think john would end up with, based very much on myself.

There are a lot of high places on Earth C. It’s geographically similar to the first iteration of Earth and presumably to the second as well, before it became a giant fishbowl. John had found himself living in the equivalent of somewhere around New Mexico. He wanted a change from the rain of the Pacific Northwest, he said. He chose to live alone. None of his friends mentioned anything about it, despite all pairing up or living with other friends. That had always made him feel a twinge of guilt. He was alone, always alone. Alone in the game, alone out of the game, alone, alone, alone. He still talked to his friends, but he always let them monopolize the conversation. They had more to talk about, anyways. He would update them on his state of being (“I’m good, thanks”), tell them about recent events (“We had a rainstorm recently, it was good for the plants”), and let them go on with events of their own lives. Not that he minded listening, of course. It made him happy to hear about the happiness of his friends. He could still feel happy sometimes, so when Rose suggested he might have depression, he laughed her off and joked his way around the topic. No, depressed people are sad all the time, John had told her. He doesn’t feel _sad._

But when the conversation was over, he found himself mulling the thought over, tapping it, kicking it, pulling apart the pieces of it only to find the insides darker than the outside ever hinted. He doesn’t feel sad, that much is true. Well, sometimes he does. He lost his whole world, after all. His whole universe. Every friend at school, everyone he talked to online, the teacher he pretended to hate as a joke, his neighbors, their dogs, his own dad. It’s hard not to feel sad when you think about all that. He didn’t allow himself to think about it most days. He filled his time with listening to other people, with taking care of the plants around his little house, with exploring the terrain around him. Earth C has a lot of high places. He discovered cliffs not far from his house; maybe a ten minute flight or so. No, he wasn’t sad most of the time. Most of the time, he felt empty. Like the wind from his powers had pulled everything out of him. He barely had anything left. The breeze rattled around in his chest like an old screen saver, bouncing around in the hollow space after his insides were gone. 

Rose said he was depressed. He said he can’t be, because he wasn’t sad. He wasn’t sad. He was never sad. He was the positive one, the excitable one, the _happy one_. He was never sad. He couldn’t be. Everyone else was, and they needed someone to be happy for them. To help them. To help them and watch them become happy on their own and to watch them leave. He didn’t resent his friends for leaving him. It’s only natural to leave when you outgrow something. He pulled open the thought of his being depressed again. He wasn’t sad. He couldn’t feel sad, anyway. There were no feelings left in him. Tending to his plants was only a routine, something to keep his hands and mind busy so he didn’t dwell on anything unpleasant. Exploring was the same. Just a routine, just busywork, just something to _do_ for once. To feel useful. Important. Helpful.

John wasn’t depressed, because he wasn’t sad. He wasn’t always empty, either. Rose and Kanaya’s wedding had made him happy. The fact that somehow there were animals here made him happy. The vast and beautiful world they lived on made him happy. The _universe_, a thing that his dear friends had _made_ made him happy. Happiness wasn’t always out of reach. Not always. Just mostly. Other emotions came up as well. Anger was a common one. Anger at the game for ruining everything. Anger at his friends and their game, and the game before that, and everything about the game. Anger at his friends for never checking on him – and subsequent guilt at that anger. Anger at himself. Oh, how he was angry at himself. At how useless he was in the building of Earth C. At how he avoided seeing his friends. At how much of an absolute broken mess he was. God, how pathetic he was, sitting alone, thinking about how terrible he felt. It wasn’t like no other person felt a little bad sometimes, and he knew for a fact that other people felt worse than him. If other people were worse, were doing honestly terrible, what right did he have to say the same about himself? How dare he ever call himself depressed? He wasn’t. He couldn’t be.

The apathy would wash over him and he would drop that train of thought. He didn’t care if he called himself depressed. He didn’t care if he called himself sad, or lonely, or broken, or happy, or stupid, worthless, useless, terrible. He didn’t care. No one else did, either. He could say he was the worst piece of shit on Earth and add “haha” to the end and no one cared. No one cared. He certainly didn’t. So why should anyone else? No one cared. No one should care. It’s okay. It’s okay.

He only talked to his friends over messaging. Over message it was easy to fake happiness and excitement. He would try to remember the joy he used to feel from talking to his friends, but the memory danced just beyond his reach. That, too, was routine now. None of his friends asked about his well-being beyond what was considered polite, and he couldn’t say he minded. It’s not as if he gave them any cause for alarm: he always answered as quickly and with as much projected enthusiasm as always. Always. He would lay on his bed in the quiet and dark of his room with the only sounds being the click of his keyboard and uneven breaths. Most nights after logging off, he would lay awake, thinking far too much.

Most nights his breath would catch in his throat and he would feel the sting behind his eyes but never found the strength to cry. Most nights he would wrap his blankets around him as tight as he could in a pathetic attempt to feel something. Most nights he would drag his nails over his head, pulling his hair and focusing on the pain. Some nights he would fly as fast as he could, never paying attention to where he went because the breeze always guided him back. One night he did something he regretted.

Earth C has a lot of high places. To a young god with near immortality, that isn’t a concern. They can fly, there’s no reason a high place would cause fear. They could step off the roof of a skyscraper and walk along the wind like they’re a character in an old cartoon. No fear. No fear, unless they let themselves fall. Unless they close their eyes, let out a breath, and feel the air part beneath them.

Earth C has a lot of high places. The cliffs near John’s house were one of them. He knew the area well, having explored it quite a bit. There was a wide chasm that split the ground with a river winding its way through the center. All the rocks in that area were bright and jagged, unpolished quartz cracked from some long-ago seismic event. Thin pine trees pointed accusing fingers into the sky. Some were perched on the edge of the cliffs, dropping needles down, down, down, into the river. A few stubborn shrubs grew in the sheer cliff face, bending in ridiculous angles to turn their faces to the sun. The river was always full and rushing, even when rain was light. There was a waterfall several minutes north, churning the water at its base into mist and whirlpools. No animals lived in the river. The current was far too strong for anything but microscopic organisms to comfortably survive. The deer and hares that passed through the canyon stayed firmly pressed against the cliff face, never straying towards the river as they walked. It was a beautiful place, in its rugged and natural way.

The stars from there were breathtaking. Not a single one the same as any John grew up seeing. At home he could identify all the biggest constellations and the stars within them. He could point out the planets visible from Earth. He knew that sky. But this one was new in every sense of the word. These stars had no names, no shapes, no imaginary lines connecting them like a child’s puzzle. They were new. They were different. They were wrong. Not wrong for this universe, but wrong for him. This world was wrong for him. This universe was wrong for him. Or maybe he was wrong for this universe.

The emptiness knocked around in his chest as he flew. He felt like he could cry but knew he wouldn’t. He hadn’t cried in years. Everything was dry. Following the breeze was easy, comfortable. The only thing he could still do was fly. The wind would sting his face, its freezing claws tearing his skin as he went faster, faster, _faster_. Never fast enough. He couldn’t hear anything but the roar of the wind as it ripped him apart and tore at his throat but still the thought prevailed: _faster, faster, faster_. He rode the wind like a tsunami, pulling it with him, letting it pull him, focusing on the sensation. It took him back to when he first flew, all those years ago. He tried to recall his emotions, begging the wind to give them back, but it only howled in his ears and bit his face.  
Most nights when he flew, he flew until he was exhausted and the pain in his chest had faded to an ache. He would slow, the claws of the wind pulling from his skin as they guided him back to his house. He would land, clumsily, and stumble inside to sleep until he couldn’t anymore. Most nights, flying helped. One night, it didn’t.

He flew like he always did, faster and faster until the world was nothing but a blur of silver and blue and green and the wind beckoned him on. He flew until he was exhausted, then kept flying. The pain in his chest, the emptiness that tied itself into a knot around his heart, refused to leave him. It had been becoming worse and worse lately. The knot around his heart wound its way through his lungs and guts and throat until it was so tight he couldn’t breathe. As he flew, the knot grew tighter and tighter until when he landed he dropped to his knees and a great silent sob wrenched its way out of him. The tears began to fall, burning down his cheeks. He clawed at his chest, trying something, anything to loose the ropes inside. His mouth opened in a wordless scream as his skin stung under his nails and his face burned under his tears. 

He stared into the alien sky through tear-blurred vision and a deep, endless sadness tore through him from head to toe. He wanted his sky. He wanted his Earth. He wanted his _home_. This wasn’t it. This couldn’t be. He forced himself to his feet, the wind supporting him. He stumbled forwards until he was standing over the chasm itself, nothing but the air to support him. Most nights, he could go back to his house and sleep. One night, he didn’t.

The air is as solid as earth beneath him. He wonders vaguely if that has to do with his aspect, or if everyone can do that. The wind has always helped him. It helps him now, holding him softly above the river. He knows what he needs to do. He can’t stop the hurt in any other way. He can't. The rope weaving through his insides constricts and he lets out a choked cry. A new wave of tears scorch his face and he curls into a ball, clenching his teeth so hard his jaw pops. The wind runs gentle fingers through his hair. He can’t do anything else. There’s no way he can stay like this, not anymore. He tried for so long. He’ll probably come back, anyway. If it doesn’t work, he’ll do it again next time. He'll do it until it takes. That is a promise. He presses his hands to his heart as if that will stop the pain. He wipes the tears roughly from his eyes and forces a few rattling breaths into his lungs. Wind swirls around him. He closes his eyes and uncurls his body. The wind lets go.

There are a lot of high places on Earth C.

He falls.


End file.
